SOS
by Banbi-V
Summary: Jim's eyes widened, so much he resembled a porcelain doll. "Ooh, big scary threat. You're good, Sherlock…that's very good. My turn again! If you don't back off, I will do more than lay a finger on your pet. I will make sure every employee of mine lays more than a finger on him and maybe once we're done with John…it'll be your turn." Contains implied non-con.
1. Chapter 1

The moment he turned and their eyes met, Sherlock nearly dropped the flash drive.

"Evening," John said shortly, blinking out a pattern. Sherlock almost didn't catch it in his state of shock as John continued, "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?"

_S…O…S_

But there was something else…the way his parka was bulkier than usual, the sweat on his brow, the dilated pupils that had a dark shadow within them, his blotchy skin, his shaking legs; the nervous twitch in his lip.

_No…someone had-_

"John," he breathed, realization slamming into him like a brick wall. "What the hell-"

"But you never saw this coming," John cut him off sharply. Was that a tear in the corner of his eye?

As Sherlock stepped close, through the opening of John's parka, he could see the vest. _Oh God…_

"What…would you like me…to make him say…next?" John echoed whoever was talking to him through the ear piece as he revealed the explosives strapped to his body and a sniper laser appeared over him.

Sherlock held his breath and glanced around, anger starting to take over. Whoever did this was going to pay and not just for the vest. As John started repeating the gibberish he was told, Sherlock kept scanning the scene for someone-_anyone._

"Stop it!" he ordered.

"Nice touch this, the pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him-" John frowned, a glint of his military face masking fear appeared on his eyes-"I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you!?" Sherlock spun around, his temper wearing thin. The reality that John was on the edge of death sent his heart racing. He never admitted it to himself, refused to believe he could fall for anyone, and now a stranger had it all on display just like that.

A door across the room creaked open, alerting him. A pouty voice finally answered him.

"I gave you my number…thought you might call," the man whined sadly, his profile peeking through the doorway.

As he stepped out, Sherlock kept his gaze locked on him. So this was the man responsible for all the chaos and riddles. The man kept walking near them, hands in his pockets.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" he joked, rather poorly, as Sherlock reached into his pocket.

"Both," he said sternly, aiming it straight at him.

For a moment, no spoke or moved, except for the sniper laser on John's chest, which kept taunting Sherlock.

The man shifted on his feet. "Jim Moriarty," he introduced himself. "Hi."

_It couldn't be…_Sherlock knew his face was familiar. Just as the thought entered his mind, Jim said it out loud.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?"

Sherlock cupped the gun with his other hand. _No one_ had ever stumped him before and gotten that close. That was why John had been chosen to be the final victim. He had heard the phrase "to make one's blood boil" but he never thought he'd experience it.

"Huh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But I suppose that was rather the point," Jim grinned, turning the corner.

The sniper laser darted and landed on John's jugular and Sherlock's eyes followed it and for a moment, his heart stopped beating. His breathing was labored and he wanted nothing more than to throw John to the floor out of the gun's path. Knowing that would be the stupidest thing to do, he collected himself and focused on Moriarty.

"Someone else is holding the rifle," he said, as if that would calm Sherlock down. "I don't like getting my hands dirty."

As he moved closer towards them, John tensed up; so much he thought he might snap in half from the tension. The sound of that man's shoes clipping nearer was enough to undo him. John closed his eyes and started a breathing exercise his therapist had taught him. He shut out their conversation about their 'consulting professions' as he knew what was coming.

Moriarty had already taunted Sherlock by threatening his life and now he was about to twist the dagger deeper into the wound.

John jumped slightly when he turned his attention back to their conversation.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty's voice echoed throughout the room several times.

Once it stopped, Sherlock whispered darkly, "I will stop you."

"No you won't," Moriarty teased him.

The laser kept darting and the slight shuffle from the sniper shifting his weight made Sherlock snap. "You alright?" he asked John, their eyes meeting again. The fear was burning like an inferno in those ocean blue eyes.

John gulped, remembering the strict instructions Moriarty had given him earlier.

_If you say one word wrong, you'll be a block of Swiss cheese, okay? _

He moved in, resting his chin near John's shoulder. "You can talk, Johnny-boy, go ahead," he nearly giggled. It was so darn cute to see a man once so strong, now so weak.

John gave a stern nod and started studying his own feet. He followed the path of his shoelaces, how they swerved and overlapped one another while he reviewed the suicide mission in his mind.

Sherlock held out the flash drive. "Here, take it." _And let John go._

"Oh?" Moriarty looked surprised that Sherlock would hand it over so easily. "Oh that…the missile plan?" He pressed it to his lips, a wicked smile on them before he sang, "Booorring!" and tossed it into the pool.

The moment he did, John made his move, wrapping his arm over Moriarty's neck and yanking back his other arm. "Sherlock, run!" he cried, holding the madman back.

Sherlock took a few steps back; eyes blazing at what John was doing, what it meant. Moriarty laughed, throwing his head back. "Good!" he beamed. "Very good."

"Just like that, pull the trigger and both Mr. Moriarty and I go up," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around," Jim smiled. "People do get so sentimental about their pets, don't they John?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion as John bowed his head, his grip loosening. Jim smiled and craned his head back so he could see John.

"Oh come on now, I know that's not the first time you've done _that_," he flicked his tongue out like a snake. "There's no need to be embarrassed, John. You're quite good, I assure you."

Sherlock lowered the gun, the pieces falling into place. For a moment, he thought he might vomit as the images plagued his mind. "You bastard," he muttered.

John pushed his lips together, eyes still on the floor. Even from the angle and the shadows falling on his face, Sherlock could see the shame in his expression.

"So tell me, Sherly," Jim turned his lustful gaze on him. "How many times have you had him on his knees? In all your taxi rides? When you're thinking? After you solved my riddles as a victory-"

"Shut up," he was visibly shaking, the gun loosening in his grip. "Shut up, you sick bastard."

Jim frowned. "Oh, I'm sure we can share him," he insisted. "Maybe we can take turns fucking hi-"

"NO!" Sherlock cocked the gun and wrapped his finger around the trigger. It was millimeters from lodging the bullet in Moriarty's brains-

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Jim teased, glancing at John.

The horror in his eyes and the microscopic flash of red between his eyes told Sherlock all he needed to know. There was a second sniper, locked on him.

"Gotcha," Jim squealed quietly and John let him go, backing away with his hands raised in surrender. "Just imagine the fate you would've left John to if you'd pulled that trigger, Sherlock. He barely made it through the ride over here; I'm not sure how he would manage for the rest of his life. However long that would be."

Bile went up his throat, but Sherlock swallowed it back down, making a face as it burned his esophagus.

"You're disgusting…," he said, his throat tight. _Oh God, John forgive me._

Jim shrugged. "That was tame…mild, compared to what I _could_ do if you don't stop snooping around." That lustful glimmer reappeared in his eyes. "If you don't stop, I'll find you, I'll find John again and well…," he glanced over his shoulder at the military man, "I'd like to see how flexible he is. How much he can really take…physically…mentally-"

When he turned around, Jim's forehead slipped across the barrel of the gun. For a second, he was shocked but then that damned giggle broke through his lips. "Oh? What's this?"

"_My_ warning," Sherlock's voice was deep and rugged, so low the ripples in the pool drowned him out. "If you _dare_ to lay another finger on John, I promise you, you will be dead before you get anywhere near him."

Jim's eyes widened, so much he resembled a porcelain doll. "Ooh, big scary threat. You're good, Sherlock…that's very good. My turn again! If you don't back off, I _will _do more than lay a finger on your pet. I will make sure every employee of mine lays more than a finger on him and maybe once we're done with John…it'll be your turn."

"I'll gladly take it all," Sherlock pushed the gun against his forehead, his finger twitching on the trigger.

John looked up from his feet, jaw dropping slightly in disbelief. "Sherlock…," he breathed.

Ignoring him as best he could, Sherlock continued, "What if I was to shoot you right now?"

That certainly caught him off guard. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Jim made the face to accompany it. "But I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a tinsy bit…disappointed. But…you'd be doing a noble thing, saving your pet from unspeakable horrors, and dying for him. So sweet of you," he smiled backing up. "Heed my warning, Sherlock. Ciao!"

Sherlock followed him, keeping the gun aimed at him as he got closer to John. "Catch you…later."

"No, you won't!" Jim sang as he slammed the door behind him. The moment he was out of sight, Sherlock rushed for John, unzipping the vest.

"Are you alright?" he yelled, yanking it off with the parka.

"Y-yeah," John said, as Sherlock tossed him about. "Sherlock, I'm fine."

He threw the parka and explosives away from them and turned back to John, placing his hands on his shoulders.

"John…," he asked gravely, "did he…did-"

One glance from his eyes told Sherlock all he needed to know. "He forced you."

"You think I'd do that willingly?" John snapped, stumbling towards the wall and falling to his knees. He started his breathing exercise again.

Hot tears burned in the corners of Sherlock's eyes. "I'm so sorry John-"

"Not your fault-"

"Yes, it is. If I-"

"You don't know that-"

Silence overcame them both.

John scoffed slightly, a small grin on his face. "I swear…"

"What?" Sherlock glanced down at him. "C'mon John, we need to get out of here before-"

"Before _what_, Sherly?" Jim's nasal voice rang out, making both of them groan. "Before the big bad wolf returns for more?"

Sherlock frowned. Damn it all, he was ready to unload this gun into Jim Moriarty.

He rose to his full height, shoulders squared and faced Moriarty. "Back for more?"

"Careful with your words, Sherlock," Jim warned him. "Double meaning…"

He walked right up to the parka and glanced at it. "I've given it some thought, though there wasn't much to consider, but…well," he shrugged to himself. "Maybe I'll just let you figure it out. I _do_ enjoy watching you dance…for now. But remember this…I'll always be watching you. Both of you," he added, winking at John playfully. "You have no place to hide from me."

He disappeared through the doors again and this time Sherlock ran after him.

"Stay here! Phone Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled.

John nodded, more let his head drop, sighing, "R-right….right." He fumbled for his phone and with shaking fingers dialed him. "Lestrade..Hey, yeah. The pool where Carl-no, Sherlock's chasing him. I'm fine, just….yeah, fine. Okay. Okay, good."

He let his phone fall to the floor and collapsed, his vision going blurry from exhaustion or tears, he didn't know. Just as the doors burst open and Lestrade, along with his team, rushed in, he blacked out.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts, please? I'm considering expanding this into a short story, maybe a few more chapters. Let me know what you think. :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: WARNING! This chapter contains non-con/rape. It's a bit graphic, but it's there. The * is there in case anyone wants to skip the scene. And thank you to everyone who reviewed, faved, alerted, and etc on the first chapter. I was blown away by the responses. Really, thank you all.

* * *

Ch 2.

When John came to, he was in the hospital with an IV and other cords connected to his body and computers. He inhaled and felt one in his nose.

_Great._

As he blinked, adjusting his eyes, he became aware of a large, dark lump by his side. His vision focused and the lump became Sherlock, who was using the edge of the bed as a pillow, lips parted as he snored softly. In his sleep, he looked like a sweet, innocent child exhausted after a day of playing in the park. His hair was extremely disheveled and fluffed, which brought a small smile to his face. John leaned back, watching the older man rest because lord knows when he last slept. It was silent outside the door, so it was probably late. He couldn't tell with the windowless, private room he was in, no doubt by Sherlock's demand and Mycroft's hand.

John shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. The last few hours blurred together in his mind, save for one event. He tried to fight off the fresh memories, but it was too late.

* * *

_John shut the door behind and stepped out onto the street. As soon as he did, a black car pulled up and a large man got out. He rolled his eyes, thinking he was Mycroft's._

"_No ladies this time?" John joked, but soon realized he wasn't Mycroft's, as he advanced towards him. The man pulled out two long zip ties and tackled John to the ground. They knocked over Mrs. Hudson's bins, the sound echoing down the alley. John prayed it was loud enough for Sherlock or somebody to hear as the man yanked his arms behind him. The plastic scratched over his elbows and wrists, securing them tightly. A torn cloth was shoved into his mouth and tied at the back of his head before his attacker lifted him off his feet and tossed John into the car. _

_They sped off with John struggling on the floor. He tried to maneuver the rag gagging him and push it out of his mouth with his tongue._

"_Don't even bother," someone above him spoke, their voice dull and sarcastic._

_John looked up and saw a young man wearing a fitted dark blue suit. His face looked so familiar…_

_He smiled, "Hi John…nice to see you again. Sit him up."_

_A pair of hands seized his shoulders and put John in a sitting position on the floor. The rag came off over his mouth with a rough yank from the guard and he gasped for breath._

"_Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded, shoving his foot into the man's shin. Big mistake. A blow went to the back of his head and John saw stars twinkling in his vision._

"_It's okay," the man insisted, rubbing his leg. "Bind his legs."_

"_No!" John resisted again, kicking and bucking his body. The guard easily overpowered him, and had John helpless on the floor of the car. He pulled out several pieces of rope and bound him at his ankles and knees._

"_That oughta hold you," he growled, yanking John to his knees and faced towards his boss._

"_If you just cooperate Johnny-boy, we won't have any problems," he spoke as if John were a child. "I don't want to hurt you, I really don't. It's unfortunate this, having to kidnap you and all, but…," he exaggerated a shrug, "it has to be done."_

_John steeled himself, his military mantra taking over. "Answer my questions."_

"_Don't you recognize me?" he asked, leaning back in his seat, spreading his legs apart. "I clean up well, don't I? Though…I suppose that's what people do when their girlfriends break up with them after the great Sherlock Holmes says you're gay."_

_John felt his blood chill, his eyes widen. "Jim?" he breathed. "From the-with Molly?"_

_Jim smiled. "Yeah, she was very easy to manipulate. Cute thing, so very gullible." _

_Anger boiled up in him, but John kept himself calm. As best he could anyways. "What do you want?" he repeated, his voice quivering slightly._

_Jim adjusted himself in his seat. "Oh, come on John...it's not that hard to figure out. I want Sherlock. I want him burnt and bled out."_

"_So you take me hostage, then?" John snapped, testing his bonds once more. This goon was good._

"_Well, when you really want to hurt someone, you go straight for the heart," Jim nuzzled his lip playfully. There was a glimmer in his eyes that made John feel nauseous or maybe it was being bound in a car that was speeding erratically. _

"_You're wasting your time," John replied, swallowing bile. He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. "I'm just his flat mate, no one special."_

_Jim shook his head, that creepy grin back on his face. He leaned forward, a hand reaching out to gently caress John's cheek. "You know that's not true. I know it's not true, hell; I've got people in the media keeping tabs on you two. You've killed men for him and even threatened that monster Golem in the planetarium. I'd say you're something special to dear Sherlock."_

_John jerked his face away. The zip ties were really starting to chaff his skin, but he wouldn't admit it. "So what's the point of taking me hostage? Hold me for ransom? Sherlock doesn't have any money!"_

"_Money?" Jim snorted, his hand slithering to the nape of John's neck. His fingers gripped the short hair and tugged, nails scratching the sensitive skin. "I don't care about money, John, I've got plenty. No…I'm going to send him a message and I need your help."_

_John shook his head as much as he could. "No."_

"_You don't have a choice. Well, you do…if you want," Jim shrugged. "It would certainly make the situation less traumatic."_

_*The goon moved from behind John, making him jump as he forgot that man was there. "Will you be needing the lube, sir?" he asked, reaching into his pocket._

_Lube? John's eyes widened. Oh God, no…_

"_Not right this moment, Seb," Jim gave him a wink. "We need to get him warmed up."_

_His hand moved from John's neck down his chest and he jerked back, yelling, "Get away from me, you sick fu-"_

_The guard slapped him hard across the face, leaving a dark red mark that would likely bruise. "You keep your shut, you little shit. Least for now," he snapped as he unfastened the belt around Jim's hips. _

"_Thank you, Seb, I'm a big boy. I can take off my own trousers," he giggled. "Come over here, Johnny-boy."_

_John pushed himself against the other seat, as if he could sink into it and disappear. "If you touch me-"_

"_You're hardly in the position to do anything," Jim cut him off. He slipped his trousers and pants, exposing himself. John felt his stomach churn at the sight. "Bring him over, since our little pet is scared."_

_Seb yanked him by his bound arms, slamming him to the floor. "Be a good boy and open your mouth," he commanded, squeezing John's face with his hand. _

"_Mm-mm!" John fought back. He'd be damned if he let this twisted bastard torture him like this. Seb dug his fingers into John's sealed lips, trying to open them. Using his other hand, he ripped John's shirt, exposing the war scar. He admired the squishy pink flesh before dragging his nails over it, tearing the skin. Tears formed in the corner of John's eyes, but he refused to scream. _

"_C'mon now John, the less you struggle, the less…painful it will be," Jim cooed him, delighted at the fight he was putting up. _

_Seb clawed his fingers over the scar again, shredding the sensitive skin and peeled off some fresh skin, causing blood to ooze out. The burning sting was enough to make John cry out and it was all over. _

_In one fluid motion, Seb forced John's head down into Jim's lap, taking his hard length in all at once. The head hit his gag reflex in the back of John's throat and he moaned, tears falling. He gasped through his nose, a sob breaking through as a moan as Jim threw back his head with pure ecstasy on his face. _

"_Oooh God!" he laughed, catching his breath. "I see why Sherlock keeps you around."_

_John's blood boiled and he remembered he still had some control over the situation: his teeth. Right when he going to clamp down as hard as he could, the barrel of a gun was pressed to his jugular._

"_If you even think about biting," Seb warned him, his voice growling. _

_John closed his eyes in defeat, keeping his cheeks puffed._

"_Well, since we're here," Jim said sarcastically, resting his arms across the back of the seat, "you might as well finish what you started."_

_A long line of curses crossed his mind, but then Seb yanked his head, bobbing him up and down Jim's hardened length. "Do we really need to do this for you, John? I know you've got it in you. Wasn't your nickname John 'Three Continents' Watson? I'm sure a simple blowjob is nothing for you," Jim egged him on._

_A fiery rage burned in John's eyes when he glared at Jim. "How about this?" Jim bent over, his mouth resting on John's ear. "If you don't do this yourself, I'll hand Sherlock over to Seb here when we meet. I should warn you, Seb likes it rough. The harder it is and the louder they scream the better. You wouldn't want that for poor old Sherlock, would you?" He licked the soft skin behind John's ear, eliciting a shiver from him. _

_John shut his eyes, his resolve slipping away. The image of this man towering over Sherlock, beating and raping him senseless plagued his mind. He could hear his friend's desperate pleas, the sound of flesh smacking flesh, the broken gaze in those icy blue eyes._

_Surrendering, John nodded. "Mmkay," he said around the length of sticky flesh on his mouth._

_Triumphant, Jim leaned back. "Good boy…now suck."_

_**John?**_

_He kept his eyes closed, bobbing his head, wincing at the sour taste of pre-cum as it went down his throat. "It's for Sherlock," he told himself. "It's for Sherlock's sake…"_

"_Go on, Seb, I'm sure he can handle it," Jim's voice whispered and John felt his own trousers loosen. Please, no…_

_**John, wake up.**_

"_Mmm! Please!" John pulled back, getting fresh air as Jim's wet, hard cock swung in front of him. "Not this-"_

"_I didn't say stop," Jim warned him. His fingers grazed through John's short hair, his pupils dilated in horror and from adrenaline. He felt cold air on his exposed backside and Seb's large hands cupping him._

"_Please, I'll do anything else," John begged, his body shaking, betraying him. "Anything but this."_

_**JOHN!**_

* * *

Sherlock snorted himself out of his sleep and sat up, regaining his senses. He hadn't had a deep sleep in…since his childhood. It wasn't good for him, slowed his brain down. Shaking himself, he checked John who was resting.

Dark shadows hung over his face, making his cheekbones stick out farther than usual. Sherlock observed him, making notes of everything he saw. Above his head, on the wall, was the official medical report. Several times he'd reached for it, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to. He _knew_ by observing John and…that devil in the pool, what had happened.

The words dug away at the back of his mind and Sherlock would not grant them freedom on his tongue.

John had been raped, pure and simple, as a warning. If he didn't stop pursuing Moriarty, things much worse than this would happen. To both of them. He had broken John as a note to back off or else.

Something wet trickled down Sherlock's face and he slapped it away, finding a tear on his palm. He couldn't recall the last time he'd truly cried, but now…

"John, forgive me," his voice was husky and deep. He coughed, clearing his throat as he took John's frail hand in between his own. "I'm so sorry."

He twitched in his sleep, shuffling nervously on the bed.

A nightmare.

John's face changed, his jaw clenched, fear swept over his features. His throat visibly tightened and he gagged. Sherlock moved closer.

"John?" he asked softly, placing a hand on his forehead.

He moved again, a soft whimper breaking through his pink lips.

"Please no," he moaned, mouth quivering.

"John, wake up!" Sherlock gripped his arms. He was dreaming about it. Sherlock shook him gently, but it did nothing and John started to panic in his sleep. He tossed and turned, his cries getting more desperate.

"Please," he begged. "A-anything but this-"

"**JOHN!**" Sherlock shouted, yanking him into a sitting position. Those eyes flew open, and a fist collided with his jaw. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor, fairly certain his jaw popped. Up on the bed, John had his arms wrapped around his knees, sobbing.

"Oh God," he blubbered, convulsing.

"John…," Sherlock softened his voice and sat in the chair by the wall, putting a good eight feet between them. "John," he repeated, hoping to get the man's attention.

The army man opened his mouth, gasping as he stared at his heels. "Sh-sher-sherlock," he whispered, gulping for air.

"I'm right here," he answered. "You're safe now, John."

Their eyes met and Sherlock felt his stomach drop. He had never seen anyone so genuinely terrified; he had to remind himself it wasn't him John was afraid of right now.

"It's okay now," he regretted the words the second they left his lips and Sherlock got the storm of the century thrown at him.

"NO IT'S NOT!" John bellowed, his voice reverberating off the wall. "IT'S NOT OKAY, YOU IDOIT!"

"John, I-"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" John was using his military voice. "Do you even realize what I-God, Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock! Do you even understand what's happened to me because of you!?"

Sherlock sat frozen in shock as John's words pierced him like daggers. He was right…if John hadn't been involved with him, this would've never happened.

"I'm sorry-"

"YOU'RE SORRY!?" John scoffed, his heart rate escalating on the monitor. "You think saying _sorry_ is gonna fix this!?"

"No-"

"Get out." John turned his back to him, pulling the sheet over his shoulder. "Just get out right now."

Silently, he rose to his feet. His breathing was labored and more tears trickled down his face. Sherlock wiped them off and steeled himself before walking out of the room. He shut the door to let John know he was gone.

* * *

With the clicking of the door, John's heart snapped in two. For the first time since his best friend's funerals, John Hamish Watson wept. His body was racked with sobs so hard, his felt his lungs might tear apart. His throat was so dry, he started coughing blood.

"Sherlock…" he begged, burying his face in the pillows. "Come back."


	3. Chapter 3

Ch 3.

Several weeks had passed since John checked out of the hospital. The ride home to Baker Street had been awkward and very tense, so much that Sherlock could've sliced through the tension with a butcher's knife. The moment they pulled up to the curb, John shoved the door open and marched up the street and vanished inside.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and followed after, to find Mrs. Hudson standing her doorway, eyes glistening with tears.

"Sherlock…," she hiccupped as the tears fell.

Saying nothing, he wrapped her in his arms. He allowed her moment to weep. "God, the poor thing!" she cried, cradling a fist to her mouth. "What can we do? I'll put on some tea."

"I think you better hold off on the tea for now," Sherlock said, letting her go. "Just…let him be."

She nodded, wiping her face clean. "Sherlock…you've got to find that man and make him pay!"

"I intend to," he answered, looking up at the door leading to their flat. "I will tear London apart if I have to, but I will find him."

"Good," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "And you'll let me have a go at him, right? No one touches my boys and gets away with it!" she snapped friskily.

For the first time since the great game with Moriarty started, Sherlock let a small smile pass his lips. "May God have mercy on any soul who crosses you, Mrs. Hudson. You are an angel."

"If you need anything and I mean _anything_," she cocked an eyebrow at him, "just ask."

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered and headed up the stairs. He found their flat empty, and glancing up the stairs, found the door to John's room closed. No doubt locked as well. Sighing, Sherlock let him be and found a book off the shelf to read.

No experiments. Not now. Not for awhile.

When the sun set, turning the wall amber gold, there was still no sign or sound from John. Sherlock had finished several books on PTSD and recovery options for victims. He soundlessly moved up the stairs to John's room, gently knocking.

"John?" he used his softest tone. "May I come in?"

He listened for movement, but heard none. Not even a creaking floorboard. He knocked again.

"John?"

Again, no answer.

After five minutes, Sherlock gave up and headed back downstairs.

"_It's normal behavior," _Sherlock told himself. "_Seeking seclusion. No interaction with others."_

/\/\

The next morning, Sherlock rose with the sun and put together a simple breakfast: toast with jam, yoghurt with strawberries, a cuppa tea, and a glass of orange juice. He carried the tray to John's door and set it at the base.

"John," he called. "I made you breakfast."

Again, no response, so Sherlock left the tray, and informed John he did so. He ate his own breakfast in silence at the kitchen table. The flat was uncomfortably silent, the ringing in his ears made it worse until he phone went off.

_~Got a case for you. If you're interested. GL_

Sherlock stared at it for several moments. He needed to get out of the flat before he went insane, but he didn't want to leave John. Well…Mrs. Hudson could look after him.

_~Scotland Yard. 10 minutes. SH_

He threw his coat and scarf on. "John, I've got a case. I'll be out for a few hours, okay? Mrs. Hudson will be downstairs if you need anything." He took a breath and added, "Call or text me if you need me. I'll come right back." _I love you._

The words hung in the air as he exhaled, dancing in front of his eyes before they spiraled to the floor, turning to dust on impact. He turned and left, feeling an odd hollow sensation in his stomach.

/\/\

The case turned out to be the most dull Sherlock had ever witnessed. Even as they pulled up to the scene, from the window, he knew everything. One glance at the body told him all he needed to know.

"Murder. Wife won the lottery, ex-husband wanted a share; case closed," he snapped in half a second. He turned to Lestrade, "We have more important things to deal with."

"I know, Sherlock, I know," Lestrade said. "I've got my best men, and I _do_ mean my _best men_ working on it. Mycroft does too and I've seen your homeless network prowling the streets. We'll find him, Sherlock."

He tensed up. "You had better," he muttered, his voice dropping to the lowest decibel he could reach. "When I find him-"

"Uh, no!" Lestrade cut him off, leading him to the police car. "I hate to say this, but when we find this Moriarty prick and his men, I won't tell you where we're holding him-"

"I'll ask Mycroft-"

"He won't tell you either-"

"You know I'll find out, one way or another!" Sherlock hissed.

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, I do…and as much as I would love to sentence him to 'Death by Sherlock' I can't. It'll be life in prison."

Sherlock pursed his lips and shrugged. "No one _has_ to know. He could've accidentally tripped into an ice pick or-"

"In the middle of summer?" Lestrade scoffed. "Jesus, Sherlock…look, I want this suck fuck castrated and hung by his testicles until he bleeds out, but this is the 21st century, not the Dark Ages."

The body was carted away and Sherlock couldn't help but imagine it being Moriarty. Nothing would please him more.

"Look," Lestrade snapped him back to reality. "Why don't you take a holiday or something? Get out of town for a bit. Take John somewhere nice, the Caribbean for all I care. Take a breather, ya know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I doubt he would want to leave. John hasn't come out of his room since we got back yesterday morning."

"Jeeze…see? Get him out of there, you both could use a nice break," Lestrade nudged him. "Take Mrs. Hudson, too, I'm sure she'd love it."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure she would. Well, if you don't need me anymore, I'll be off."

"Give my regards to both of them," he called as Sherlock hailed a cab.

/\/\

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock found the flat still empty. He checked John's door, his heart sinking.

The tray was still there, untouched.

His phone buzzed, making him jump.

_~Got something interesting for you. Dartmoor. Missing person for 20 years. Son claims to have proof that his father was killed by a gigantic hound from the Baskerville facility. GL._

Sherlock gasped. "Ooooh." He pounded on the door loudly. "John! We're going on a holiday. Pack your bags!"

When silence met him, Sherlock bounced down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson flat. He pricked a hairpin from her head and headed back up to pick the lock. Just as he was halfway through, Sherlock heard footsteps.

The door opened and Sherlock rose from his knees.

In short, John looked like hell.

Hair unwashed, eyes puffy and red, skin blotched, no sleep or food for at least 36 hours.

"I'm not going," he whispered, his voice raspy.

Sherlock frowned. "John, I need you-"

"NO!" he shouted. "No, you don't," he calmed down. "I'll stay here, thanks."

"Please? I need you," Sherlock pleaded. He kept his distance as John leaned on the doorframe, obviously exhausted, physically and mentally.

John wouldn't make eye contact, instead focusing on Sherlock's untied shoelace. "Can't Greg go with you?"

Sherlock frowned. "Who's _Greg?_"

"Greg Lestrade, he's got a name, you know?" John sighed monotonely. "I just-I can't. Not right now."

Neither spoke for a moment. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "John," he tried again, his tone sincere. "We both need to get out of London and this is the perfect opportunity. Some fresh air, clear skies; it'll be…nice."

John scoffed. "Right…for a case?"

Sherlock nodded. "In Dartmoor." He nuzzled his lip, watching John think. At long last, he got an answer.

"Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry this chapter is kind of short and uneventful. Personal life getting in the way. First my laptop crashed, but thank goodness for keeping back up files on a USB flash drive. So I spent most, if not all of, my tax return money on that. Then...my bank account was hacked and drained. I got it under control and tomorrow I'll see about being reimbursed by the bank, so yeah...no money equals no new Microsoft Word which means this was typed in a Notepad text file. Forgive me for any paragraph structures that are messed up or such. I promise more action in the next chapter. :) Take care all.

Ch 4.

The train station was fairly empty as Sherlock and John exited their cab, carrying their bags. Sherlock got their tickets, first class John noted, and headed for their station. Checking the numbers, Sherlock quickly found their room and held the door open for John, who nodded his thanks and stepped in. It was a large room, complete with a bunk bed built into the wall, a dining table, and small fridge for food.

On top was a bottle of iced red wine, John's favourite, and two glasses.

He sighed and tossed his bags under the bed and climbed up on the upper mattress. Sherlock sat on the couch opposite, peeking glances upward at his friend. He double checked that both doors leading to their room were locked. Soon after, the train departed from the station and they were off to the country side.

As the sun set, the caterers stopped by to take their order for dinner.

"John, what would you like?" Sherlock asked the small lump.

"Nothing," he replied instantly.

Sherlock frowned. John hadn't eaten in three days. "We'll take the smoked salmon and asparagus with red potatoes, no butter," he told the young man waiting. As soon as the door closed, John protested from the bed,

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in three days, you need to!" Sherlock insisted, leaning back into the couch.

"You never eat," John pointed out accusingly.

"Well, now I'm hungry and if I have to force feed you, so be it!" Sherlock was getting irate, which was rare for him. He coughed and tried again, "John, please…for my sake, and your body's…you need to eat. At least one bite from each is all I ask."

"Fine," came the snappish reply. "One bite."

Disappointed, but satisfied, Sherlock relaxed a bit and went into his mind palace. He was behaving appropriately, according to his studies of rape victims, trauma, coping, etc. The threat to eat might've been a bit much. He needed to be more…gentle. A hard knock shook Sherlock from his mind palace and soon the overwhelming aroma of salmon filled the room. He grinned when he heard John sniff and rustle in the bed. Sherlock glanced up to see John's eyes peeking over the edge.

He couldn't suppress a small grin. "Hungry?"

Dark blue eyes narrowed. "Bastard," John muttered before emerging down to the floor.

Sherlock sliced the fish in half, divided the asparagus (8 each) and the potatoes, which he noted were glazed with olive oil and garlic. Sherlock opened the wine and poured a small amount into their glasses and handed one to John.

"Cheers," he smiled, raising his glass.

"What for?" John said, his voice monotone, glass on the table.

He set his glass down. Sherlock didn't know what to say._ "Cheers, it's been 3 months since you were sexually assaulted!"_ or _"Cheers, this is your first time outside since you left the hospital to get into the cab!_" or _"Cheers, you're not the man you used to be! You're the shell of the dry-humoured, witty, handsome Army doctor that came out of thin air into my life one year ago!_"

Sighing, Sherlock began to eat silently. He nibbled at the salmon, which was exquisite, mentally berating himself. John sat there, eating the food with his eyes. He was starving and the food looked delicious, but he had no appetite and yet he wanted to devour both of their plates.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, blinking tears from his eyes. Sherlock looked up, setting his knife and fork down. "I'm sorry," John repeated. "I know you're trying to help…"

Sherlock sat and waited, remembering it was best to let the victim say what they needed to, even if it took them an hour.

"It can't be easy for you," John continued. "Having to deal with me, put up with my foolish behavior-"

"It's not a hassle!" Sherlock burst out, unconsciously reaching out and taking John's hand in his. "You're not a burden, John. And don't apologize! Don't you dare apologize! I should be the one apologizing; it's my fault."

"It would've happened anyways-"

"No, it wouldn't have!" Sherlock snapped, gripping his hand tighter. "If we hadn't met, this would have never happened!"

John pulled his hand away, wiping it, as if he could rub off Sherlock's touch. "Perhaps you're right," John stood up, swaying slightly as the train pumped on down the tracks. He climbed back up onto the bed, his plate untouched. "Sorry to waste your money and food."

Sherlock put his face in his hands. Poor choice of words, Holmes! He bit his lip until he felt blood trickle on his tongue.

"I'm sorry, John," he said, his voice husky.

"Don't be."

"I didn't mean it as "I wish I'd never met you at all" but…"

"Perhaps it might've been for the best," John answered.

And with that, the remainder of the train ride was dead silent.

* * *

Sherlock rented a hummer at the station and drove them the rest of the way to Dartmoor. As he loaded in their luggage, John raised an eyebrow.

"Since when do you drive?" he asked snappishly.

"My father taught me when I was a child," Sherlock explained, starting the engine. "I could steer the family car while he pushed the gas pedal."

John nodded, a small smile coming to his face briefly. He could imagine a pint sized Sherlock sitting on his daddy's lap, tiny hands gripping the steering wheel (which was probably twice as big as his head) peering over it as he maneuvered down their driveway.

"Must've been a sight to see," he commented.

Sherlock glanced over, delighted to see John smiling, even for a moment. It was a small feat, but one nonetheless. "Yes, I believe there are photographs."

John hummed, keeping his eyes focused on the scenery they passed. It was lovely, nothing but green meadows and brown hills. No sign of tall buildings, London cabs, double decker buses or anything. He rolled down the window to let the wind grace his face. John inhaled deeply, relaxing.

"This was a good idea," he admitted.

* * *

Sherlock pulled in to the small town, his truck being the largest thing there, aside from the inn. He hopped out, closing the door and locking it before heading inside. John sat waiting, watching him as he disappeared inside. He swallowed and wringed his hands in his lap.

_"It's okay John…he's just inside. Doors locked, no one can get you."_

The sky got darker, shadows creeping over the scenery like devil's hands and John started to panic. He never liked darkness and especially now. He turned the overhead light on, his leg twitching as he waited anxiously for Sherlock to reemerge.

* * *

"That's impossible!" Sherlock fumed, fisting his hands at his sides. "There has to be another room!"

"Sorry mate," the innkeeper replied. "It's the only room left. All the others are booked."

"Tell anyone who has a double I am willing to pay, in cash-"

'I'm sorry sir," the man hushed him. "There's nothing I can do."

Sherlock pounded his fist on the table, snatching the key. "Fine."

"If anyone does happen to check out early, I will move you there, I promise," the innkeeper added. "Can I get you anything else?"

Sherlock was furious, gripping the key so tightly in his hand, he felt it tearing through the skin. "Extra pillows and a duvet."

He stormed out back to the car, kicking the wheel and cursing at the pain. "Damn!" he yelled, making John jump out of his skin in front seat.

"Something wrong?" he asked, looking over the seat.

The detective grabbed their bags and unlocked John's door for him. "Bloody fool," he snapped under his breath. "We're never staying here again."

John snorted, slipping on his jacket. They headed up the stairs to their room and upon entering, John froze, staring at the single king size bed.

"Um, no," he deadpanned.

"My thoughts exactly, which is why I ordered an extra duvet and pillows," Sherlock explained, setting their bags at the base of the bed.

"You take it, I'll sleep on the floor."

John turned to him. "What-no…it's fine, really-"

"No, it's not," Sherlock cut him off. "You are taking the bed, and that's final."


End file.
